


Dessert

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Baker!Fitz, Desserts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9449345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: “Babes! I found the churros!”Frosting squirted all over Fitz’s hands as he squeezed the decorating bag too tightly, startled as he was by the sudden cry from outside his shop. He looked up to see two faces pressed against the front window and the two short-haired women to whom the faces belonged waving enthusiastically.(Daisy and Jemma wander into Fitz's bakery and their lives get a little sweeter. Most chapters are G-rated if you want to check it out and skip the frisky bits.)**originally from my drabbles collection**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Per an anon's suggestion, I'm moving series over from my drabbles collections to un-clutter it a bit. But I'm only moving completed series. If you see an uncompleted one over there that you'd like to see moved into its own fic, please let me know.

“Babes! I found the churros!”

Frosting squirted all over Fitz’s hands as he squeezed the decorating bag too tightly, startled as he was by the sudden cry from outside his shop. He looked up to see two faces pressed against the front window and the two short-haired women to whom the faces belonged waving enthusiastically.

The shop didn’t technically open for another fifteen minutes, but he couldn’t very well ignore them, so he set his supplies down, wiped his hands on the front of his apron, and wrapped around the counter to open the door a smidge.

Bitingly cold air zipped in through the space and he wrinkled his nose, feeling it turning red already. “Can I help you?”

“You’re the churros guy!” exclaimed the woman nearest him, trying to wrench the door the rest of the way open. “We’ve been searching everywhere for you!”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” Fitz replied, nonplussed. The other woman was dancing behind her friend, blowing against her chapped hands and beaming at Fitz.

“Well, duh,” the first woman sighed, then explained, “Joey recommended you. We had tacos at his truck yesterday but he’d just run out of churros and those were the real reason we went there in the first place but he said you supplied them to him and yours were the best in the city even though you’re a gringo but we were supposed to get here early or you’d sell out–”

“You’re definitely early,” Fitz cut her off. “I’m not open yet.”

“C’mon, it’s like, ten of! What’s the harm?”

Fitz glanced over his shoulder, where his frosting was definitely hardening and his croissants needed to go in the oven. “I’ve still got a ton to do–”

“Oh, _please_ ,” the second woman begged. “It’s terribly cold out here and we’ll be very quiet!”

Fitz seriously doubted that, if the first woman’s babbling was any indication, but he stepped aside.

“Thanks a million, churro guy,” the first woman grinned as she popped past him. “I’m Daisy, by the way, and this is Jemma.”

“You’ve got a bit of flour, did you know?” Jemma leaned forward and tapped the side of Fitz’s nose. “Just there.”

He jerked back in surprise. “Your hands are freezing.”

“Are they?” she chuckled, and she pressed them to her cheeks. “Don’t know how that could’ve happened. It’s so balmy outside…”

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “Take a seat.”

Instead, of course, they rushed to the display case and put their hands all over it, smudging it up again after he’d just wiped it to shining.

“Oh my!” Jemma exclaimed. “These marzipan fruits are darling!”

“Jemma, Jemma, look at this cookie,” Daisy snorted, elbowing her friend in the side. “It’s bigger than my face!”

“You’d still finish it in one go.”

“Oh, not even a question.” Daisy glanced up at Fitz, who wasn’t even trying to hide his irritation. “So, about those churros! We’ll take all of them.”

“That’ll be…” Fitz leaned around to scan the baskets he’d already prepared, some of them still steaming. “$100, please.”

“Oof.”

“Maybe just the two, then,” Jemma suggested lightly. “And two cups of hot chocolate?”

They began to peel off their scarves and hats and other layers and draped them across a pair of chairs, laughing and chattering. Fitz shook his head as he went to get the hot chocolate started – but he had to admit, the little bakery felt much brighter and warmer than it normally did this early in the morning.

“So are you visiting the city for the weekend?” he queried as he laid two plates and two mugs on the table before them.

“Just moved here,” Daisy replied, warming her hands gratefully above her mug. “We’re roommates.”

“We’re hoping to start a food blog,” Jemma added eagerly.

Fitz froze with his hands in the pockets of his apron. “So… is this an audition?”

“Calm down, churro boy,” Daisy chuckled. “We’re not food critics, just food enthusiasts.”

“My name is Fitz, not _churro boy_ ,” Fitz muttered. “But, ehm, if you’re interested in learning the food of the city, I’d be happy to give you some recommendations, or show you around–”

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” Daisy said around a mouthful of churro, “but Jemma’s single.”

“That’s now what I–” Fitz protested hastily, but then he glanced at Jemma, whose eyes sparkled as she laughed at his discomfort and who had a little trail of chocolate over her upper lip, and he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. It didn’t seem relevant anymore. “Er – yeah, okay.”

“As long as you leave the apron at home,” Jemma teased.

“Do you think bakers _always_ wear aprons?” Fitz demanded, throwing up his hands, but he was grinning as he turned away and went to flip the sign on the door over to _Open._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record i've never had a cronut

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Fitz muttered, trying to sink further below the protection of his coat collar.

Jemma, whose nose was bright pink from the cold, nonetheless hadn’t stopped smiling all morning, even as she hopped from foot to foot in a futile attempt to keep warm. “You’re a baker, you’ve lived in this city for three years, and you’ve never had a cronut? Please. It was basically my _duty_ to drag you along.”

“But I had a _plan_.” It was true – he’d drawn up an itinerary for the day, centered around food highlights but with museums and views from skyscraper observatories thrown in to allow for digestion – but Jemma, the purported guest on this excursion, had hijacked it from the outset. (However much he groused, he hadn’t _actually_ been able to say no.)

“We can follow the plan some other day.” She waved one mitten-ensconced hand dismissively. “It’s like – it’s like you have a recipe, but you get a stroke of inspiration for something that will take your pudding or biscuits or whatever to a new height of delectability, so you improvise.”

“You’ve clearly never baked, have you?” Fitz snorted. At her affronted look, he explained, “Baking’s not like cooking. It’s all about chemistry. You _can’t_ improvise, or you’ll end up with chocolate chip biscuits that all run together.”

“So then you get biscuit bark,” Jemma shrugged, unconcerned. “Sounds delicious to me. And if I’m so clueless as to baking, maybe you should teach me.”

“Okay,” Fitz said automatically.

“Brilliant. Oh look, we’re moving!”

When they finally got inside the store and reached the front counter – a full two hours after they’d started queuing outside – Fitz pulled out his billfold. “Two, please.”

“Actually, make it four,” Jemma piped up.

He ran his eyes very obviously over her slim form. “Seriously? Not judging, just… impressed.”

She tsked, grinning, and swatted his arm. “The second two are for Daisy and her boyfriend. Not that I _couldn’t_ finish three all by myself. And please, let me pay, you gave us free refills on the hot cocoa.”

“I’m supposed to be showing _you_ around.”

“Then you can get lunch.” She elbowed him out of the way and handed her card to the cashier.

They carried the grease-soaked bag of piping hot cronuts over to a miraculously free table by the window. Jemma spread a couple of napkins and retrieved two of the pastries.

“Ah ah ah,” she chided, slapping Fitz’s hand as he reached for the one in front of him. “Let me take a picture first, for the blog.”

“Just don’t get me in it.”

“Of course you’re going to be in it! Food is as much about the people with whom we share it as it is about the food itself.”

Fitz affected a pout but Jemma giggled and his traitorous mouth quirked up of its own accord just as she took the picture.

“Alright, enough of that,” Fitz grumbled, and he brought the pastry up to his mouth.

His eyes closed as the rough sugar touched his tongue, and his teeth sank effortlessly through the feather-light layers of dough, which then proceeded to melt like spun sugar.

“Oh, god, _yes_ ,” he groaned.

Jemma tittered and his eyes snapped open.

“Well, _that_ was pornographic,” she chortled, plucking a piece of cronut off of and popping it into her mouth. (He’d need to teach her a thing or two about baked good etiquette.)

“It was not!” he squeaked, lowering his pastry to the table and hoping she would attribute his significant blush to the lingering effects of the winter wind. “I just happen to have a very sexual, oh bloody hell I mean sensual, relationship with food.”

“Mhm,” Jemma hummed, grinning unabashedly at him.


	3. Chapter 3

“First thing, you’ll be wearing this.” Fitz held the checkered apron out to Jemma, who showed no sign of taking it, so he quickly slid it over her head, his hands just brushing her ears, and let it fall to her chest.

“Daisy sends her condolences, by the way,” Jemma said, tying the apron behind her back. Fitz resisted the urge to glance down at himself: he was certain his own apron was not _nearly_ as flattering. “She would’ve loved to take lessons from the Master Baker but she was otherwise occupied.”

“Yeah, no of course, another time, then.” Fitz frowned at the recipe card in his hands. Had there been a misunderstanding somewhere? He’d thought they’d been quite flirty on the day they toured the city, and again when she brought him sushi for lunch last week, and again when they’d wandered through a farmers’ market, selecting ingredients for his pies. He must’ve read Jemma wrong. Of course he had, why would a charming, beautiful food blogger, even an odd one like Jemma, be interested in a reclusive baker?

“Is that what we’re making?” Jemma hovered by his elbow, nearly leaning her chin on his shoulder as she gazed down at the recipe.

“Uh, yep!” He managed to hand it to her and step away at the same time, reinforcing a friendly distance. “It’s for you. I know the recipe by heart but I’ve gathered you have a flagrant disregard for my art, so I expect you to adhere to that strictly. _No improvising_.”

“Of course, of course,” Jemma nodded, perusing the recipe. “I take  chemistry _very seriously_. No fooling around in the kitchen.”

 _Interesting wording_. As she got her bearings in the recipe, Fitz took down their supplies and measuring cups and turned on the oven.

“Where do you want me?” Jemma asked eventually.

“Erm – can you measure the dry ingredients? That’s the flour, the salt –”

“Dry’s not a baking term, Fitz,” she teased, patting him on the shoulder as she moved into his space and swept the bowl right out of his hands. “I think I understand the general category.”

He watched her at first, as she bent over the table and ran a finger along the tiop line of the recipe, but for all her nonchalance and jokes, her brow was furrowed and she mouthed each ingredient as she measured it. The success of these biscuits seemed rather important to her.

When she proudly presented the completed mound of powders to Fitz, he poured in the oil and cracked an egg on the side of the bowl.

“Oh!” Jemma exclaimed.

“What?” Fitz asked, startled, and peered into the bowl. “Did I get a piece of shell in there?”

“No, I–” Jemma pressed a hand to her chest and licked her lips. “That thing you did with your wrist, it was rather… impressive.”

Fitz chuckled. He spent so much time working alone that he forgot how his precision and little flairs could so easily awe onlookers. “You should see me toss a pizza crust.”

“Ooh!” Jemma wriggled her shoulders, grinning. “Exciting.”

Fitz mixed the dough together – perhaps with a bit more wrist action in whisking than was strictly necessary, but Jemma seemed to enjoy that – and then handed the bowl and a rolling pin to her. “I’ve already floured the counter, you can just roll it out while I grease the sheets.”

He’d just unfolded a used butter wrapper when Jemma called, “Fitz? I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s fine. Just don’t get it too thin.”

“No, I really think – I really think you should come show me.”

He turned slowly. Jemma herself had confessed to watching hours upon hours of cooking shows, so the likelihood that she didn’t understand the basic mechanics of a rolling pin seemed questionable. But there she stood, one hand on the counter, her eyebrows raised and her lips slightly pursed.

She waved the rolling pin at him. “If you don’t mind?”

“’Course.” He crossed the little kitchen and wavered as she faced the counter once more, putting her back to him. _Crispy crackers and bloody hell.  
_

Fitz cleared his throat and stepped up behind Jemma – not touching her, but so close that he could feel the warmth of her and see the little blonde hairs that ran up the back of her neck.

“For starters you’re going to want to roll these up,” he murmured, brushing her sleeves over her forearms. “Here, let me–” He crimped them up one by one and snugged them tight above her elbows. “Now–”

He gently slid his hands down her forearms, over her wrists, and onto her hands. Jemma’s fingers floated upwards, apparently unconsciously, at the touch, and her thumb brushed his.

From here he couldn’t see anything, so – willing his anatomy to cooperate – he shuffled closer until he could place his face just next to hers, his chin close to her collarbone as they both looked down at the dough. He kept his pelvis a few inches from her bum, respectfully, but his chest was pressed to her shoulder blades.

“So then you just…”

He closed his hands over hers around the handles of the rolling pin, the softness of her skin and the bony jut of her knuckles a distracting contrast. He applied a gentle pressure to move the rolling pin forward.

“Like this?” Jemma whispered. Fitz was relieved to hear she sounded as breathless at their proximity as he did.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like that. Back and forth, back and forth–”

He stayed behind her, hands on hers, long after she’d found a good rhythm and gotten the dough under control.

“Fitz? Now what do we do?”

“Now?” he asked dreamily. Was this not what they were supposed to be doing? “Oh, f–” He yanked himself backwards. “Cookie cutters. We need cookie cutters.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jemma was weaving back to their table with a plate of scones when a man hailed her, waving to catch her attention.

“Excuse me, miss, could I have a refill on the coffee?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jemma smiled, “I don’t work here.”

“Oh!” The man looked at her lack of apron in surprise. “I just assumed – you’re here all the time, or at least every time I’ve been here.”

“Friend of the baker,” Jemma explained, glancing back to where Fitz was explaining the difference between crumb cake and coffee cake to a smattering of customers.

“Ah.” The man nodded sagely and winked. “Friend with benefits, I suppose.”

“If by benefits you mean a 20% discount on churros, then yes.”

“He meant those kind of benefits the same way I mean ‘let’s watch a documentary!’ when I invite Lincoln over for Netflix and chill.” Daisy had appeared at Jemma’s side. “C’mon, I’m starving.”

They’d barely made it back to the table before she leaned over with a lecherous grin.

“But since someone else broached the topic, why _aren’t_ you tapping that? From what you told me about your little bake night, you’re hungry for Fitz’s churro and he wants to cross those hot buns of yours.”

“Firstly, _disgusting_ ,” Jemma chided. “The idea of a churro as a dildo? Incredibly unsanitary…”

“Please just tell me some day you’ll get all hot and heavy against the display case and then feed each other donut holes in the afterglow,” Daisy said dreamily.

“I’ve got it under control, alright?” Jemma sighed. “Fitz is like a souffle. If you rush him, you risk ruining everything. Patience, my friend.”

She waited until there was a lull in the line at Fitz’s counter before approaching him, emboldened by sugar and the way the apron tie accented his waist. 

“What can I get you?” he asked with that immediate, wide grin she’d somehow permanently won out of him.

“An almond horn with a dollop of advice, if you don’t mind.”

“What seems to be the problem?” He leaned into the display case, searching for her pastry.

“Well,” Jemma huffed dramatically, “I think I’m going to need to stop coming here because your baking is wreaking havoc on my blood sugar and you still haven’t asked me out.”

Fitz banged his head on the inside of the glass as he tried to straighten too quickly and when he emerged he was pink in the cheeks and rubbing  the spot gingerly. “Oh?”

“Yes. And thought I thought the days we spent together were dates–”

“They were,” he said quickly. “Unofficial dates, I guess.”

“Should we try an official one, then?” She shook out a paper bag for him so that he could package the almond horn, which he’d entirely forgotten. “There’s a restaurant I’m dying to try – it’s a touch romantic, if that’s going to be a concern–”

“Not a concern,” he assured her, setting about ringing her up. “Unless, that is…” He let the silence linger so long Jemma felt her smile slipping. “Unless you start critiquing the appetizers, that would kill the mood right away.”

“I’ll just take silent notes and not share them with you, then,” she beamed.

“No, don’t do that,” he chuckled. “I’d rather bicker with you about everything anyway.”

Jemma floated back to Daisy as if she were walking on cotton candy.


	5. Chapter 5

Fitz caught Jemma staring – again – and froze with a leaf of arugula trapped between his teeth. “What?”

“Nothing,” she insisted and went back to grinning at her lasagna. “Just – for the longest time I suspected you subsisted on nothing more than pastry flour and white sugar, so this is a bit of a shock.”

“What, you think I could maintain _this figure_ –” He gestured dramatically to his flat torso and skinny arms. “–On that sort of diet?” 

“All protein shakes and white meat for you, then.”

“Exclusively.”

When she’d first ordered her entree, he’d interpreted it as a death knell for their budding whatever-this-was. Surely it would be loaded with garlic; was that a signal she didn’t want to kiss him at night’s end? But everything about the way she leaned towards him and let her foot graze his ankle suggested otherwise.

She regarded him flirtatiously a moment longer (not something he’d previously known was possible, for someone’s eyes alone to be that attractive), and at last he relented.

“We all know non-dessert foods are merely conduits for survival to allow us to continue to consume sweets and pastries.”

“I knew it!” she cried, nearly knocking over her wine glass as she gestured her fork at him. “You would eat pudding for every meal if you could.”

“There are _exceptions_ ,” he avowed as she chomped happily on a mouthful. “Like… like pretzels, and popcorn–”

“You’re lucky I came along to force you to eat in establishments where those aren’t considered full meals,” she teased. “You’ll be dead by thirty-five without me.”

“If vegetables are the price I pay for your company, I’ll bear it.”

If Fitz hadn’t heard the words come out of his own mouth, he wouldn’t’ve believed he could be capable of such smooth, topical banter. Jemma seemed likewise momentarily awestruck, but she recovered more quickly than he did and leaned suddenly across the table to spear a blueberry and a curled shaving of cheese from his plate.

“Hey!” he exclaimed and tried to slap her hand, but she was too quick. “You’re a food blogger! Isn’t that an essential dining faux pas?”

“I prioritize the science of taste over the confines of behavior,” Jemma replied primly, her light hold on her fork betraying her words. Fitz would bet his bakery that she’d been raised in a household where fine china wasn’t fancy enough for guests. “I knew you’d never agree to share, and it’s imperative that I sample the various offerings at each restaurant we review.”

“I would’ve shared,” he grumbled.

“I’ll give you another chance with dessert.”

“Actually,” Fitz croaked, summoning every ounce of courage in his tiny frame, “I thought we could go back to the bakery for dessert. Whatever you want, my treat.”

There were little green herbs between Jemma’s teeth when she beamed at him, but it hardly mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

“So what should we have?” Jemma asked brightly, peering into the display case, currently the only source of light in the bakery.

“Whatever you want.” Fitz leaned against the glass a safe distance away, gaze on her rather than the pastries. “I can make something fresh or you can have anything in the store.”

“Anything?” Jemma repeated in a new tone. She straightened and approached him slowly. “Well, in that case…”

Fitz gulped as her fingers pinched the middle button on his shirt. She was _very_ close now.

At the last second, Jemma stopped leaning towards him and breathed, “I’ll take an eclair.”

Of _course_ she would choose something vaguely phallic that gushed sticky cream. Maybe this was her way of flirting? But even after all this time, Fitz still didn’t want to assume anything. No one had ever made him feel as good as his treats made his patrons feel. Though none of his patrons had ever wanted to snog his banana muffins… that he knew of.

While Jemma ate half of her éclair in one bite, Fitz nervously unfurled an elephant’s ear. He separated the crisp layers with his teeth, crystals of sugar dissolving pleasantly on his tongue, as he catalogued Jemma’s experience. He could tell the moment she bit into the choux dough from the soft little sigh she made around it, saw her eyelids flutter when the cream filling hit her tongue (the secret: just a touch of rum), envied her free hand as it settled reverently over her heart as the rich chocolate icing smeared her lips. He recognized all the distinct signs of a customer’s pleasure, and still he waited anxiously for her review.

“You know,” Jemma murmured as she set the empty plate on top of the display case and delicately wiped at her lips, “I’ve been to the bakery reputed to have created the first éclair –“

“Antonin Careme’s?” Fitz said eagerly.

“Yours is better.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged in the bakery world that telling a baker that their creation is superior to the original is as good as a marriage proposal. So Fitz could hardly be blamed for dropping the last remaining curl of his dessert (he could be remorseful over that later) and pressed Jemma against the display case in a kiss. Her back bent slightly with the curve of the glass, but his arms about her shoulders cushioned her.

She still tasted of chocolate and rum, warm and sweet, and maybe she was right, maybe he _was_ the greatest baker to ever live, because only a genius would be worthy of Jemma Simmons (and maybe not even then). But he _felt_ worthy of her, there in his shop, as she tucked the tips of her fingertips beneath the waistband of his slacks and giggled against his lips.

“What?” he grumbled, not even stopping kissing her completely as he protested her laughter.

“You’ve got sugar all over your fingers,” she chuckled, squirming slightly in his grasp, “and it’s tickling the back of my neck.”

“Sorry-“ Fitz groaned, trying to brush it off, but Jemma stayed his hand and instead twisted so that her front was pressed to the glass and Fitz’s hips were flush against – against – _against –_

“Why waste it?” Jemma breathed teasingly. Getting the message (and suppressing another, different groan), Fitz held her upper arms and leaned fully against her to slowly lick the crystals from her skin. She shivered when he bit lightly at the top of her spine and demanded, her hands reaching back to settle on his hips, “Why didn’t you try anything when we baked together?”

“The sanitation, Simmons,” he scolded, licking up the back curve of her ear. He wasn’t ready to admit how badly he’d wanted to kiss her then, or how he’d been too nervous of the way she deliciously complicated his life.

“I hope you don’t have any such qualms about this case.”

“We can wipe it down,” he assured her.

“Good, just—Can we move those marzipan bunnies elsewhere? I feel like they’re watching me.”


End file.
